


Amazing Things

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to a prompt <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=5842087#t5842087">over here</a> that said simply ‘John can do amazing things with his tongue’.</p>
<p>Also <a href="http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=13442">available in Chinese</a>, translated by <a href="http://sdgemsyndrome.livejournal.com/">sdgemsyndrome</a></p>
<p>Edited to add: now with cover art from <a href="http://xistentialangst.tumblr.com/post/33005260571/amazing-things-by-katelear-rated-x-word-count">XistentialAngst</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing Things

**One**

‘Wow, I can’t believe you can’t do it.’

‘Oh, don’t look so happy, it’s hardly an intellectual feat, rolling your tongue.’

‘I know. Which makes it all the more astonishing that the world’s only consulting detective is completely and utterly incapable of–’

‘Shut up. Don’t you have a blog entry to write?’

‘Damn right I do!’

‘ _Not about this!_ ’

If, after that conversation, Sherlock spent a little extra time in the bathroom in the mornings, then John at least had the sense to pretend not to notice.

\----------

 

**Two**

‘You know, your parents might have neglected to mention that shooting at the wall is rude, but I’m pretty sure that they _would_ have told you that staring is rude.’

‘I just don’t understand how you can do that.’

‘What, this?’

‘Yes! How the _hell_ do you manage to flip the entire Pringle over before you eat it using _only your tongue?_ It’s impossible!’

‘Nah.’ John grinned at him in an entirely infuriating manner. ‘Me and my old rugby team were bored on a coach trip to a match. Had to stop the coach halfway there to buy more Pringles, but we did it in the end. Won the match, too.’

‘I’m not surprised, with that amount of MSG and sugar circulating in your bloodstream. Pass them over, it can’t be that hard.’

‘I’d change your shirt before you start. Grease doesn’t come out of silk.’

Sherlock tried to ignore the heady rush that came with John so blatantly taking notice of what he was wearing and stalked testily into his room. Digging a T-shirt out of a drawer, he returned to the living room and the smirking man on the couch with an air of determination. He could certainly master this, if a coach full of _rugby players_ had been able to do it.

\----------

 

**Three**

John watched Sherlock finish his meal, his nose wrinkled slightly in distaste. ‘I don’t understand how you can eat that stuff.’

‘Broccoli? What’s wrong with it? I would have thought a doctor would be all in favour of vegetables.’

‘Too bitter. I never liked it, even as a kid.’

They were in a French restaurant, finishing off _moules-frites_ (John) and _poulet à l’estragon_ (Sherlock). The obligatory candle was on the table between them, and Sherlock had noted amusedly that John had barely put up a token protest this time but had even smiled and thanked the waiter. He speared the last piece of broccoli and swallowed it, watching John curl his lip again, and thinking idly that candlelight suited him. It made him look younger, like young man Sherlock imagined he’d been before he went off to war and saw horrors that woke him in a cold sweat at 3am at least once a fortnight. Not, Sherlock thought regretfully, that he had personally had the chance to find out, but even an idiot could notice the lines of stress and the dark circles that occasionally appeared beneath John’s eyes.

Setting down his cutlery, Sherlock wiped his mouth. ‘If you don’t like bitter foods, does that mean you don’t want the chocolates that come with the coffee?’

‘Nice try.’

\----------

 

**Four**

‘Ouch… ow… _ouch!_ ’

‘You know, that would go so much easier if you would let me have a go.’

Sherlock glared at him, hunched protectively over his left hand, tweezers held poised in his right. ‘Thank you for your contribution.’

‘I’m serious, you’re going about it the wrong way. You shouldn’t be _jabbing_ at it like that–’

‘Bugger off.’

‘You know, I wasn’t actually _christened_ “Doctor”. Believe it or not, I did have to _study_ to be–’

‘Oh for God’s sake, _fine_.’

John sat down next to him and took the tweezers that Sherlock thrust irritably at him.

‘There’s no need to take it out on me,’ he said mildly. ‘If you’re going to crawl around on the floor of a carpenter’s workshop looking for evidence then you’ve got to expect to pick up splinters.’

‘Please just get on with it, _Doctor_.’

Sherlock gritted his teeth and looked away, braced for pain, and was shocked when he felt John’s lips close over his finger. His head whipped around and he stared at John, uncomfortably aware of _warmsoftwet_ , but John wasn’t looking at him. John was frowning in concentration, staring distractedly at the coffee table, as he suckled gently at Sherlock’s finger and his tongue nudged the shard of wood buried just beneath the skin. Once, gently, and then again, harder this time, and Sherlock couldn’t hold back a gasp that had to be covered with a brusque cough.

And then John was slowly letting Sherlock’s finger slide out of his mouth (Sherlock felt a sweat break on his temples) and touching his own fingertip to his tongue and showing Sherlock the small brown splinter that lay upon it.

‘See?’ he said. 'Sometimes it works better if you just go about it gently.'

‘I…’ Sherlock croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you. That was… Thanks.’

John looked at him oddly. ‘You’re welcome. You ok? You look a bit flushed. Didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘Me? I’m fine. No, you didn’t hurt me, it was… fine.’

‘Good.’ John got up to make tea and Sherlock took advantage of John’s distraction to quickly adjust himself in his trousers, wishing he’d worn less tailored ones that day.

\----------

 

**Five**

They arrived at the crime scene to be greeted by the usual chaos – blue lights flashing, radios crackling, the odd distant siren as another ambulance drew closer.

As Sherlock and John approached what seemed to be the hub of activity another sound rose above the general commotion – the unmistakable screech of a crying child – and no sooner had they found Lestrade than a young constable wandered over to them with a small boy wriggling in his arms, face awash with tears and clutching a toy rabbit in terror. It was difficult to say, Sherlock mused, whether the child or the man looked more desperate for escape.

‘Good Lord, Johnson,’ drawled Sherlock, ‘by the looks of things, someone’s been telling him that you _eat_ children like him for breakfast.’

John, who was more practical, asked, ‘Where are his parents?’

‘Hospital,’ Lestrade replied grimly. ‘No, they’re going to be fine,’ in response to John’s compassionate frown, ‘but the kid’s grandparents should be here soon to look after him and _Jesus Christ, Johnson, can you take him somewhere else?_ ’

The boy’s wails took on a new edge of distress and Sherlock could see the moment John made his decision, kind-hearted soul that he was.

‘Here, I’ll take him for a bit.’

At the sound of John’s voice the boy looked around, weighed John up and _launched_ himself away from the hapless police officer, clearly deciding that John was less threatening than anyone else in his immediate vicinity.

As John leapt forwards in alarm to catch the boy Sherlock remembered an eventful first evening – a man shot with deadly accuracy from an almost impossible range – and thought _How wrong you are_ , but contented himself with saying merely, ‘Obviously going to grow up to be a protester against the police state.’

Judging from Lestrade’s thunderous expression, this was on a par with a text to a crowded media room, but he jerked his head and said tersely, ‘This way then.’

‘Of course. John? Oh.’

As Sherlock turned automatically, it was to see John’s back, walking away from the crowd of people to find a quiet corner. John half-turned, to call over his shoulder, ‘Can you manage without me?’

‘Naturally,’ Sherlock snapped, recovering quickly. ‘I managed perfectly well before you, after all. Lead on, Lestrade.’

They made their way over to the crime scene, Sherlock feeling irrationally resentful of the two-foot high individual occupying John’s immediate attention, and he went through his deductions in a style that was brusque even for him.

When they returned to the main crowd, Sherlock scanned the people for a black jacket until Lestrade put a hand on his arm. ‘Can you stay until the grandparents get here?’

‘Why in the world would I need to speak to them? You surely don’t think they had anything to do with it,’ Sherlock scoffed, and Lestrade shook his head.

‘Of course not. But…’ he pointed over towards the side of the road, where the ambulances were parked, and through the crowd Sherlock saw them.

John and the boy were perched on the edge of the curb, John’s heavy jacket almost drowning the boy who was staring up at John in fascination. As Sherlock watched, John stuck his tongue out and neatly touched it to the tip of his nose, before nudging the boy and saying, ‘Now you try.’

The boy still gripped his stuffed rabbit like a lifebelt but he actually smiled as he contorted his small face, trying to mimic John’s actions. John grinned down at him. ‘Terrible. Watch again.’

How long he stood there gazing like a vacuous idiot, Sherlock had no idea, but it was long enough for Lestrade to accidentally-on-purpose joggle his arm when he took his notebook out.

‘So, if there’s nothing more you can give me, then I’ll be getting on. I’ll let you know when his grandparents turn up.’

‘Right. Yes. Fine,’ Sherlock said distantly, still staring off in the other direction, and noting with a burst of venom when an attractive female paramedic came to sit on the opposite side of the boy and smile at John over his head.

Much later on that evening, when they had returned to Baker Street (both of them, attractive female paramedics notwithstanding) and bid each other goodnight, Sherlock lay in bed staring at the ceiling. With growing discomfort, he realised that he had just spent an alarmingly long time watching John in what (in anyone else) he would have called fatuous adoration as John demonstrated one of the many endearing qualities for which Sherlock had been completely unprepared when he offered to share a flat with the man.

An assistant with a medical background who would work with him at crime scenes was one thing. If he happened to be attractive and completely unfazed by danger, then so much the better.

But this… _this_ …

Well, _hell_. What the _fuck_ was he meant to do about _this?_

\----------

 

**And one…**

Fascinated, Sherlock pushed the bowl towards John. ‘Go on, do another one.’

Grinning, John took a cherry from the bowl. Neatly twisting the fruit off and dropping it back in the dish, he put the stalk in his mouth, closed his eyes in concentration, and then a minute later laid a neatly-knotted cherry stem alongside a dozen others that lay on the table.

‘That’s incredible. How did you learn to do that? Don’t tell me it was on _another_ rugby coach trip.’

‘That? No. That was an old girlfriend who showed me. Claire Wainwright. Best relationship I ever had.’ John looked nostalgic for a moment and Sherlock felt jealousy roil in his stomach. He didn’t like feeling jealous (and he didn’t like to be reminded that John slept with _women_ , thank you very much, and that one day he would settle down with one and leave Baker Street for a dull, staid life somewhere) and it was that which prompted him to say nastily, ‘Well. I’m sure all your old girlfriends appreciated that talent.’

John looked at him in surprise for a moment before his eyes narrowed assessingly. Sherlock just had time to regret his sharp words – because John Watson might not be a consulting detective but he was still no fool – and then John said calmly, ‘Yeah, they did. My old boyfriends did too.’

The bowl of fruit went flying a scant instant later as Sherlock discovered that yes, there was indeed a lot about John Watson’s mouth that a man might be appreciative over.

\----------

A while later, Sherlock buried his hot face in his cool pillow. ‘Oh God… oh _God_ … oh John…’

John lay between his legs, his fingers stroking soothingly over Sherlock’s buttocks while his thumbs held him mercilessly open and exposed. His tongue flickered across the entrance to Sherlock’s body and returned to press more firmly, and when Sherlock felt his own body give way, just the slightest amount, he gathered the sheets into his sweaty fists and spoke.

‘We could possibly… move onto other things now… if you wanted…’

His voice sounded slurred, as though he had been drugged, but it was difficult to be embarrassed about it. It was difficult to even concentrate, to tell the truth, with the soft insistent squirm of John’s tongue pushing against him right _there_.

‘Well, we could,’ John spoke against his flesh and Sherlock tried like hell to focus on what John was saying and not on the exquisite vibrations that were making him leak more into the growing wet spot underneath him, and rub himself involuntarily against the bed. ‘We could… but I quite like having you under me like this.’

John bent his head once more and Sherlock bit his lip, trying desperately not to wail aloud as John’s caresses took on a very definite rhythm and he pushed a hand under Sherlock’s hips, letting him grind his erection into John’s damp palm.

‘John, I… I can’t… oh hell–’

His release soaked into the sheets and Sherlock tried to muffle his noises in his abused pillow as John pushed his tongue inside him, fucking him with it until eventually all Sherlock’s muscles went limp against the bed and his loud sobs had turned to soft groans.

As the last aftershocks of orgasm shivered through him, Sherlock felt John bury his face in the small of his back, his five o’clock shadow rasping slightly against sensitive skin.

When John finally lifted his head and hoarsely said, ‘Turn over. Can I fuck you?’, the first thing that came out of Sherlock’s mouth was an imperious, ‘Have you been trying to seduce me?’

He blinked. It wasn’t actually what he had meant to say – he had intended to give an unreserved yes to John’s question – but John didn’t seem to mind. There was a warm huff of laughter across Sherlock’s skin as John said, ‘ _God_ , yes. For _weeks_. Do you think I show everyone that I can tie knots in cherry stems with my tongue?’

As Sherlock turned over, John shuffled up the bed and Sherlock pulled him close for a kiss, suckling gently at John’s mouth and running his hands over his sides until John groaned, ‘ _Sherlock_ … can I…’

‘Yes, Christ, yes, of course.’

Scrabbling impatiently in his bedside table as John buried his face in his neck, Sherlock made a mental note to buy more cherries at the earliest opportunity. John was always on about buying milk – ordinary, mundane, _boring_ – but this… _this_ was an incentive to go shopping.

\--End--

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Amazing Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4713011) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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